


Get Better for Me Sherlock

by ClueyLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Chloesfanfiction, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Get Better for Me Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sickfic, fluffyfic, m/m - Freeform, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClueyLock/pseuds/ClueyLock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes' eating and smoking habits have left him in a mess, which leaves Doctor John H. Watson the only man able to help.<br/>A really fluffy sickfic, with huge hints of Johnlock. Mystrade also makes an appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling (for John?)

"John, where on EARTH are my cigarettes?" Sherlock growled, clearing the kitchen table with a large sweeping motion of his arm so that magazines, plates and case files fell crashing to the floor. "JOHN!"  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but it's for your own good," the doctor said sternly, folding his arms, "they're extremely bad for your health, and you're not having them back until you eat a full meal."  
Sherlock froze, and slowly turned around to look at John. "This is about my eating habits? You're hiding my cigarettes because you dislike my eating habits?" The detective snorted, "John. I'm not hungry. Food causes digestion which dramatically slows down my thinking. I cannot afford to have my mind drained simply because normal people like you feel the need to eat three or four ridiculous meals a day."  
"Food is necessary, not ridiculous!" John cried, surprised that his partner was getting so worked up. "Look, I'm going to heat you up some soup, and you are going to eat it." John was determined to bring Sherlock back to full health, and he was prepared to do anything to make sure that this happened.  
"John I-"  
"If you want your cigarettes back..." Sherlock scowled, and John looked up triumphantly at him. "Leak and potato, or vegetable?"  
"Don't care," Sherlock spat, and sulkily strode over to his armchair where he curled up in a ball with his back to John, now in the kitchen, who was already starting to heat up the canned soup up over the cooker. Letting out a little sigh, Sherlock let his eyelids fall shut, and waited for John to come back with a bowl full of what he only recognised as disgusting slop.

"Here," John came back into the sitting room and balanced the tray with the soup on the side of the armchair that Sherlock was sat on, and gently put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  
Sherlock opened his eyes, and gazed up at John, their eyes locking for far longer than necessary.  
"No, John..." Sherlock whispered, and turned his face into the back of the armchair as he felt John's grip loosen on his shoulder. 

He hated disappointing his John.

John stirred the soup, letting the steam pour out of the bowl with the sweet smell of potato drifting into Sherlock's nostrils. John pushed the spoon further into the bowl, allowing the spoon to be half-filled before taking it up to meet Sherlock's lips.  
"Just a couple of spoonfuls," John murmured, "there we go."  
Sherlock opened his mouth just wide enough to allow the spoon to be pressed against his tongue, the leak and potato mush being deposited into his mouth. He closed his lips around the spoon and swallowed, shuddering.  
They repeated this process only four times before Sherlock refused to swallow anything else. Even when John offered him a glass of water, he declined.  
"John-"  
"I know, I know - you want your cigarettes." Sherlock nodded, and John groaned, standing up. "Let me take these from you first." The doctor picked up the tray and the bowl from Sherlock's lap, and then threw the silk blanket from the back of the armchair (which Sherlock loved so much) over Sherlock.  
"Hurry up, John." Sherlock muttered, winding the blanket around his frail body.  
John smiled, merciful that Sherlock still had his wit, even in his darkest of days.  
John reached into the top end kitchen cupboard and produced a single packet of cigarettes, before grabbing the green lighter and heading back to the sitting room.  
Sherlock raised both of his arms towards John, like a child reaching out for a chocolate bar. But Sherlock wouldn't ever reach out for food; especially not something like chocolate.  
John tossed the lighter and the cigarette packet to Sherlock, before sinking down onto the sofa opposite him.  
He watched as Sherlock made a little flame appear, flicking the lighter with long, delicate fingers that had had years of practise of allowing the flame to flicker at his command. He watched as the man before him reached frantically for the cigarette box, fingers fumbling at the opening. And finally, he watched as Sherlock brought the lit fag to his lips, inhaling deeply, and exhaling with a large sigh of relief, with smoke gushing out of both his mouth and nostrils.  
"Thank you," Sherlock gasped, closing his eyes once more before tilting his head back and resting it on the back of the armchair, "thank you."  
John's stare fell from Sherlock, and instead into his lap where he was wringing his hands, palms sweaty. He hated seeing Sherlock like this. He was in such a state, but the delusional man, whose eye was so observant to everyone but himself, was clearly blinded of the fact that he was destroying himself.  
"What's wrong, Doctor?" Sherlock asked, eyes still closed and head still tilted back. "I ate for you, did I not?"  
John said nothing, still starting at his palms.  
Sherlock snapped open his eyes and lifted his head, glancing over at John. John's eyes were pricked with tears, and his figure shaking ever so slightly as he tried to hold back his emotions. Sherlock was John's everything. He was nobody without the detective.  
Sherlock tensed when John's tear-filled eyes once again came up to meet his own. He nervously swallowed and quickly looked away, pretending that he hadn't seen the look upon the doctor's face.  
Snubbing out his cigarette after only taking one drag, Sherlock stood up and declared that it was about time that he went to sleep, so that his mind would be sharper in the morning.  
John looked after him, and waited until Sherlock's bedroom door clicked shut. He tangled his hands into his hair, and allowed the tears to spill down his cheeks.  
"You stupid man!" John screamed, standing up, more tears dribbling down. "Stupid, stupid, STUPID!"


	2. The Fall of Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His friends would do anything to protect him, but sometimes, there's nothing they could possibly do to save Sherlock from himself.

Last night was a long night for John; he kept waking up in a cold sweat, after having his recurring nightmare. The memory of Sherlock standing on top of St. Barts hospital, spreading his arms wide and tipping over the edge. Falling. While he, John, stood on the street below, helpless.  
Although that was only Sherlock faking his death to save the lives of his loyal companions, John had still thought that he was gone forever. He couldn't lose his friend again, not for real. Not to see his lifeless body, cold as ice at touch, lying in a coffin.  
Especially not when he could do something about it.

Pulling himself together, he dragged himself out of his bed, still in yesterday's clothes, and walked into the sitting room, where Sherlock was playing his violin.  
"Good morning, John," Sherlock called when John stopped in the doorway, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.  
"Good morning," replied John, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands.   
They stood in silence for a couple of minutes, the sound of the strings on the violin having a bow sweeping across them in such a professional manner being the only sound to break the silence.  
This continued until Sherlock faltered as he caught the strings, after which he cursed under his breath.  
"Sherlock...?" John asked, finally.  
Sherlock turned on his heel to face John, violin still perched under his chin. "John?"  
"I'm...going to make breakfast..."  
Sherlock looked down at his bow, nervously fiddling at the horse hair with his thumb.  
"Okay. Well, you don't need to tell me every detail of your life," Sherlock said, clearing his throat, "But, seeing as you've just stated your plan, I'll allow you insight into my own. I'm meeting Lestrade, in half an hour. Mycroft too, unfortunately. I really must be heading off soon." Sherlock placed his violin down onto the coffee table and opened up the violin's case, taking out the rosin and gently running it along the hair of the bow.   
John turned around, and quickly walked out of the room and back into his bedroom. He knew Sherlock would stay out until late in the evening - even if he wasn't with his brother and the other detective the whole time - just so that he could avoid eating.   
John hurried over to his bedside and rummaged in his dresser, whipping out his phone. Scrolling through his contacts, he found Mycroft's number:

I know you may not care much for Sherlock, but I do and quite frankly he's gravely ill. He says he's meeting you and Lestrade today. Just do one thing for him? Make. Him. Eat.  
-John

John perched on the end of his bed, tossing his phone in the air and catching it. He hated the fact that he had just betrayed Sherlock, but the detective was all John had.  
John didn't have time to pity himself any further, for his phone sounded with Mycroft's reply.

There's nothing I can do. Although, I suppose I can mention it to him.  
MH

John gawped at the screen, shocked at how little Mycroft cared for his own brother. He started punching in a reply, but stopped halfway through. Starting an argument with somebody like Mycroft Holmes was never a good idea.   
Slamming the phone down on his bed covers, he got up and raced to the door.  
"Sher-!" John began, but didn't finish shouting the detective's name, as it was clear Sherlock was no longer in the flat. Sighing, John walked back into the kitchen and switched the kettle on, making coffee for one.

* * * *  
[The three are gathered at a corner table in Angelo's].

"Brother dear, how kind of you to show yourself." Mycroft greeted his brother politely, although his face remained expressionless. "Tea?"  
"No, thank you." Sherlock said, also letting no emotion show on his delicate face. "Lestrade." He greeted.  
"Sherlock." Lestrade nodded.   
"So, why did you want to meet me so early?" Sherlock said blankly, getting straight to the point.   
Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged a glance, and Sherlock swore that he actually saw his brother smile.  
"We have...a case." Mycroft said, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into something of a smile. "Although I'm afraid that the...victim," he chose his words carefully, "is not quite dead."  
Sherlock looked in confusion from Mycroft to Lestrade, then back again to Mycroft.  
"...What? How can I solve a murder when there hasn't been...well, a murder!" Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion; his senses for observation were clearly failing him today.  
Mycroft turned to look at Lestrade, who was fidgeting awkwardly in his chair.  
"Lestrade, my dear, would you care to enlighten the poor fool?"  
Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft, and nodded. "Alright..."   
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and his gaze locked with Lestrade's. "Who. Is. The. Victim." He glared.  
Lestrade took a moment to compose himself. "You are, Sherlock. You just don't care for yourself. I mean, just look at you! When did you last eat a proper meal?" Greg vaguely gestured to the whole of Sherlock's body with one hand, his other hand resting on the table, quivering slightly.  
Sherlock continued to stare into Lestrade's eyes, as if he was trying to reach in and search through the man's thoughts. After a minute, the staring became more than awkward.   
"Dear brother?" Mycroft butted in, raising his chin slightly. But Sherlock didn't appear to have heard. He stood up so quickly, which caused the chair to fall backwards, and strode out of the restaurant, his coat sweeping behind him.

"JOHN." Sherlock yelled into the air, making passers-by jump almost out of their skins.  
Then it hit him.  
He hadn't had food for three days, apart from the spoonfuls of soup John had fed him, and the cups of black coffee he had drank in the middle of the night.  
A light buzzing noise filled his ears, and his vision blurred slightly. Stumbling, Sherlock hit his shoulder against the wall, and tripped.

Falling. That's what John's always been afraid of. Scared that his Sherlock, the rational, incredibly intelligent and generally magnificent man, would fall once more.

Sherlock felt the dirt from the pavement stick to his now grazed palms, heard the tear as the fabric covering his knees on his trousers ripped.  
Then, black.

**Author's Note:**

> I've realised that I haven't updated this story in a while, so the next chapter will be written and added ASAP, in early March time!


End file.
